Severus Evans and the Impudent Brat: Chapter Ten
Year One: Severus Evans and the Impudent Brat

Chapter 10: The Great James Potter




"A cupboard."

Severus slammed the office door behind him.

"My son," he said, "informs me that he spent the last ten years living in a cupboard."

Keeping his eyes fixed on the journal he was reading, Dumbledore reached for a lemon sherbet. "I believe that he has since been moved to a bedroom upstairs."

In three steps Severus stood in front of the headmaster's desk. "You did know about it."

"Harry was in no danger."

"Damn it!" Severus yanked the journal out of Dumbledore's hands and flung it across the room. "I trusted you--I trusted them--you assured me--damn it." He spun around, wrapping his arms around himself.

"Severus," Dumbledore quietly spoke up. "You have him now."

"I should have had him all along."

He heard the chair creak, soft footsteps across the floor. The chair creaked again. Severus turned, and saw that Dumbledore had resumed reading his journal.

Severus sighed. "Bloody. Fucking. Hell."

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows.

"Do keep an eye on Quirrell," he said.


It was barely a few days into the new term when Severus caught sight of his son walking through the corridors of Hogwarts looking like he'd passed through a hurricane.

"Evans," called out Severus. "A word with you, please." He drew the boy aside into the nearest empty classroom and closed the door. "Harry, what the hell happened to your hair?"

Harry grinned. "Just like James Potter!"

Severus set his jaw so tightly that for several moments he could not speak.

"James Potter," he finally, faintly echoed.

Harry nodded vigorously. "England's greatest Chaser!"

"Oh, he is quite a chaser," Severus dryly agreed. "But you're a Seeker. What do you care?"

"Because he's the greatest!" exclaimed Harry. "Best Quidditch player ever!"

"I am sure that is an exaggeration."

"No. Really." Harry reached into his bag, rummaging. "It says--right here--"

"That will do, Harry."

Harry stopped rummaging and looked up at him.

"Comb your hair," Severus told him, in a voice so quiet that it could not be mistaken for anything other than the most unyielding command. "Grow it long, cut it short, I don't care, but I will not have you going about looking like you just rolled out of bed."

"But--all the Quidditch fans--"

"You are not all the Quidditch fans," Severus sternly countered. "You are my son, and you will at least attempt to look civilized."

Harry's face fell. "Yes, sir," he said. Then he brightened. "Can I get new glasses?"

"New glasses! I just--"

"Black ones. Just like--"

"James Potter."

Harry looked up at him expectantly.

Severus crossed his arms over his chest. "Absolutely not, Harry. I just got those glasses for you, not two months ago. And if you break them, I will repair them, so don't even think to try."

"Can you Transfigure them?"

"No. I will not."

"Will not. But you can."

"Care to spend an evening scrubbing cauldrons, Mr. Evans?"

"No, sir, Professor Evans, sir."

"Right." Severus nodded brusquely. "Now go comb your hair and get on to class."


Next morning an owl arrived for Harry at breakfast, dropping a large mailing tube onto his bacon and eggs. Severus watched from the High Table as Harry opened the tube and withdrew several posters. Harry unrolled the posters and, with the Weasley boys, admired them for a minute until he glanced up at Severus, who arched one eyebrow, indicating that Harry should put the posters away and finish his breakfast.

As soon as he was done eating, Severus left the High Table and made his way over to the Gryffindor table.

"Look--Professor," said Harry. He unrolled one of the posters again, holding it up so Severus could get a good view.

It was all he could do to keep his breakfast from splattering itself all over the grinning, waving image of the great James Potter.

"I bought them with my Christmas money," Harry informed him, practically bouncing with excitement.

Severus shrugged. "It's your money." Silently he vowed never again to give Harry money with no strings attached.

"This one's even better." Harry rolled up the poster and unrolled another one: James Potter was standing, one fist upraised, with the slogan of the Falmouth Falcons emblazoned across the lower half of the poster: Let us win, but if we cannot win, let us at least break a few heads.

"Charming." Severus grimaced. "I suggest you focus less on breaking heads and more on using your head, if you wish to get ahead."

"The Old Icicle's back from the holidays," muttered one of the damned twins.

"Five points from Gryffindor, Mr. Weasley."


It was all Harry's talk: James Potter this, and James Potter that, and if only I could be a tenth as great as James Potter. Severus began to wish he'd paid more attention before buying the Quidditch Times subscription for Harry. He remembered hearing, years ago, that James Potter had gone on to play Quidditch professionally. Never married. Bit of a ladies' man. Very much a ladies' man, actually, if even a tenth of the rumors were true. Hardly a suitable role model for Harry. But until now Severus had never had reason to be interested in the life and times of the great James Potter.

He was tempted to take the cloak from Harry and mail it back to Potter with a note: Here's your ruddy cloak. I suggest you make use of it and render yourself invisible. For the duration. But of course that wouldn't be fair to Harry; it wasn't Harry's fault that the cloak had once belonged to Potter--and, after all, Potter had abandoned the cloak--and really, all other considerations aside, Severus much preferred that the whereabouts of James Potter should always be known.

Severus pulled off his glasses and rubbed his closed eyelids with the tips of his fingers. Dear God, if the boy only knew--

He lifted his head, clenching his jaw. The boy would never know.